


The Calendar Hung Itself

by iamjacksblindrage



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst, Character Death, Fluff, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:52:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamjacksblindrage/pseuds/iamjacksblindrage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on Bright Eyes' beautiful song "The Calendar Hung Itself."  I suggest listening to it or at least looking up the lyrics before reading this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Calendar Hung Itself

                Waking up to Sherlock Holmes was the best way Greg Lestrade could imagine waking up.  Sherlock would crawl out of bed and tiptoe around to the side that Greg slept on and pepper kisses all over Greg’s face and sing quietly in his ear.  It never failed to make Greg smile and he almost always pulled Sherlock back up into bed and curled up around the younger boy.  Most days, Sherlock would humor him for a bit, and then, maybe 10 minutes later, would roll out of bed and dress and leave for school.  He always, _always_ kissed Greg before he left.  More than once, Greg would get up when his alarm went off, half an hour after Sherlock left, and found that his Converse trainers were missing.  Sherlock told him once in a fit of sentiment that he took them so that when he was walking the halls of Harrow, he could look down at his feet and pretend he was walking with Greg.  Greg would go about his day, going to classes at University of West London and working part time at Tesco, wearing Sherlock’s slightly too big, black leather boots.

                Nights were different.  They were either passed in pure ecstasy or spent curled together in a morose tangle of limbs.  Sherlock knew just how to touch Greg to bring him to bliss, knew just what spot at the base of the man’s neck to bite and suck when he was just on the edge of orgasm to throw him over the edge.  Those are good nights, when they both fall asleep sated and sweaty.  Then there are the bad nights, when Sherlock’s father gets drunk and goes on rampages and Mycroft leaves Sherlock to handle it on his own.  Those are the nights they fall asleep with croaking voices and salt-stained faces, when Sherlock sobs through sentiments.  Then there are the nights when Sherlock doesn’t sleep at all.  Those nights, he lays awake and listens to Greg’s breath.  The mornings after, Sherlock will complain to Greg about how much he smokes.

                Then there are danger nights.  The nights when Sherlock is likely to use, when Greg’s likely to find him lying on the tile floor in his bathroom with a hypodermic needle jammed in his arm, coughing.  Greg knows that those aren’t the only nights Sherlock uses, that there’s plenty of nights he doesn’t know about yet.  They stay with Greg, deep in his chest.

\---

                The winter before Sherlock is set to graduate, Greg gets him to go to rehab.  It’s a short enough stint, just over a month, and he doesn’t miss much school because of it.  That spring, though, the boy almost seems like a ghost of himself, paler and gaunter and anxious.  In June, he graduates from Harrow, and then he and John head to the States for a road trip.  John’s set to be deployed to Afghanistan in August, so this is the last bit of time the two have together.  John kept Greg updated on their whereabouts and how Sherlock was holding up.  He, too, describes Sherlock as a ghost.  Apparently, the two talk extensively about John’s impending deployment and more than once has Sherlock theorized all the myriad of ways John could die while away at war.

                Sherlock craved the whole trip.  He craved drugs and nicotine and Greg and home.  Each city seemed more and more like a decent enough resting place for him.  He told John this and he broke.  He made Sherlock call Greg.  They were in Chicago at the time and Sherlock had curled up in the corner of their motel bathroom, knees tugged up to his chest.  The phone rang and rang and Sherlock dug his front teeth into the knees of his jeans until the call went to voicemail.  Instead of hanging up, or telling Greg to call him back, Sherlock just sang ‘you are my sunshine’ softly into the receiver through gentle sobs.

\---

                “I kissed a girl with a broken jaw.”

                John had been away for two months.  On Saturdays, if he had the capabilities to make a phone call, he’d always without fail call Sherlock.

                “Her father gave it to her.  She had eyes like yours, damn near bright enough to burn me.”

                Sherlock was patient and listened to John describe the young Afghan girl he’d conversed with that day.  He’d been sitting in the desert, at the edge of the base, when the girl had approached.  She’d only been 18 or 19, with dark skin and dark hair and bright blue-gray eyes.  She had spoken good enough English and they’d sat and talk about everything.  She told a story of when she was a little girl in a tomato field.  He had kissed her, before he found out about her broken jaw and right after that, had rushed her into the med tent and wrapped a bandage around her jaw and sent her off with one of the medical officers to be airlifted to a larger base that had access to x-ray machines and operating rooms.

                “You make me happy, Sherlock.”

                “Just come home safe, John.”

                After John hung up to call Harry and let her know he was alright, Sherlock had gone out the lay in the garden.  The sky was gray, like usual.  And he had laid there for near on an hour before Greg had come out and laid next to him without a word.  This became a regular occurrence.  After he got off the phone with John, Sherlock would lay out in the garden and Greg would join him until Sherlock felt like talking.

                And then one Saturday, John didn’t call.  And he didn’t call the next, or the next.  Greg was visibly shaken and Harry had called Sherlock several times, to see if he had heard from John.  And then the letter came.  It was addressed to Sherlock, with several stamps and postmarks from its travels from Afghanistan to England.

                _Sherlock,_

_If you’re getting this letter, then I regret to tell you, I’m gone.  I know you won’t cry much, if at all, so that’s not a worry of mine.  What I need you to do is make sure Harry and Greg do okay after this.  I love you, kid, don’t you dare ever forget that.  Don’t let anyone stand in the way of you become absolutely amazing.  Please, stay away from the drugs, cut back on the cigarettes, and most of all, take care of Greg.  He loves you and adores you and right now, he’s gonna need you more than anything.  Be strong, Sherlock.  All you need to do is be strong.  I know you can.  All my things will be shipped back to Harry and I’ve told her this in her letter, but there’s a note in my notebook.  It’s basically just a list of who gets what of my stuff.  You get my ID tags and any of my textbooks that interest you and the photo album we made._

_I’m really sorry I did this to you, Sherlock.  I’m sorry I broke my promise.  I know I was supposed to come home safe and I didn’t and I know you’re going to hate me for the rest of your life and I’m sorry._

_I love you._

_John_

                And Sherlock went out to lay in the garden without a word to Greg.  Greg left him alone for a while before joining him.  He just sat next to Sherlock’s reclined figure and waited.  After a few moments, Sherlock shoved the letter into Greg’s hands and suddenly stood, turning and heading across the garden.  In one smooth movement, he jumped the back fence and set off across the field.

                It took Greg an hour after he finished the letter to find Sherlock.  He was sitting in the grassy knoll behind the Watson’s back garden.  Not a tear fell from his eyes, no emotion played across his face.  He just sat, didn’t even flinch when Greg sat next to him or when the rain started up.  Eventually, Greg just hauled him up to his feet and dragged him home with reassuring murmurs.


End file.
